


Just You and Just Me

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [140]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bottom Clark Kent, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 19:25:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15978866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Nobody's found out they're together yet. It's only a matter of time.





	Just You and Just Me

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Secret relationship. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

The first time it happened, of course, it was an accident.

If they’d been discovered the first time, if someone had happened to walk/teleport/phase through the wall and stumble in, they’d have found a way to explain it away--well, Bruce would have. He’s always been quick on his feet. Even if, that first time, he’d felt somehow swept off them as Clark kissed him through it, jacking him with just too much force, just the way that Bruce’d asked for.

They could’ve said _sex pollen_ , they could’ve said _spell_ , if somebody had stumbled across them, Bruce halfway out of his armor and Clark still wrapped up from his throat to the tips of his ridiculous red boots. _These things happen we don’t know it won’t happen again_.

Bruce might’ve even believed it himself.

But it got a little harder to lie about it each time.

That nobody had ever found out, though, that’s what felt like a spell, like a minor sort of miracle. Because they’ve gotten sloppy, if Bruce is honest, reckless, too hungry for each other to think straight, and now, he supposes, it’s only a matter of time before everybody and the world knows, before the tabloids are after them, before Diana buys them china, before Dick and Damian start smirking and calling Clark _Dad_.

And all that once would’ve perturbed him, would’ve kept him from enjoying the eager play of Clark’s big, gentle hands over his back, but right now, tucked up inside the strongest man on the planet--not a man, except in the all the best possible ways, one with a heart even more fierce than his fists--there’s not a flicker in him that cares.

“Mmmm,” Clark says, his head falling back, his nails catching Bruce’s shoulders. “Rao, yes. Right there. Like that.”

Bruce nuzzles his throat, drinks in the smell of him: ozone and cologne and the barest hint of something like sweat. “Right there? Is that where you want me?”

A sigh, low and sweet. “Yes, please.”

Clark isn’t always impossibly polite during sex; sometimes he’s bossy. Sometimes, he’ll come to Bruce with blood on his mouth or his cape torn and not say anything, just sink to his knees or push Bruce down to his and come with no kind of restraint. Sometimes, once won’t be enough to silence it, whatever darkness is clouding his head. Sometimes, he won’t leave for hours, won’t let Bruce out of his sight, and when he does, when the red sun in his mind finally rises, Bruce will be covered in him, stink of him, feel the happy sting in his ass for days.

But then there are times like this, when Clark is like melted butter, pliant and impossibly hot. He was ready before Bruce even touched him, before he opened the lube and coated his fingers, watching Clark’s eyes go soft and wide.

“I don’t need you to do that.”

“I know,” Bruce had said. He kissed the inside of one knee, scratched gently at the second. “But you love it when I do.”

Clark had protested, gently, right up until Bruce’s fingertip found him and teased its way, slow and perfect, around and around and then in. Then his whole body had gone rigid, all those long muscles in stark, gorgeous relief as the firelight poured over his face, every inch of his impossibly beautiful chest.

“Oh,” he’d managed. “Oh, oh, Bruce, _yes_.”

He’d come from just two fingers and the heat of Bruce’s tongue tied with his, the press of their bodies together, and now, as they fuck, it’s like he’s covered in sugar, his skin sticky where they meet, the smell of him smokey and sweet.

They’re kissing again, Bruce can’t help it; there’s something about Clark’s mouth when they have sex, something that begs to be filled. Even when Clark’s hands are steel on his hips and his cock’s rubbing the sheets, Bruce will find himself rearing back, eschewing friction for the half-turned drag of Clark’s lips over his, the sidewinder kisses, long and sloppy as they slide towards release. But now, with Clark under him, he can devote himself to it, timing his hips to the ebb and flow of his tongue. It makes Clark crazy when he does that, makes him curl up like a crab and hold on so tight that it hurts. Like Bruce would ever want to get away.

“You can make noise, you know,” Bruce gets out between kisses. “We’re home alone.”

“I know, I know, you told me, I just”--a moan, a quick catch of white teeth--“it’s hard. I’ve trained myself too well."

“Trained yourself to be quiet?”

That gets him a shudder. “Yes, yes. Don’t want--“

“Don’t want what?” He ducks his head and bites under Clark’s ear. “Don’t want somebody to see how pretty you are when you’re desperate? When you’re so wet for me, so soft. So fucking ready to come?”

The sound Clark makes now is muted but the kick of his hips is not, the swell of his big, swollen cock. “ _Bruce_.”

“What?” Another bite, this one at the edge of Clark’s jaw. “I told you, nobody’s here. There’s nobody to see. Or to hear. It’s just you and me.”

Clark’s legs shift, let go of their tangle, slide up and wind around Bruce’s waist. “I like that idea,” he whispers. “Being somewhere where it’s just you. Just me.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmmm. Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because. I need you. Need this. I need--”

“What? Tell me.”

Clark’s breath is ragged now, the clutch of him a hot, silken crush. “I need--I want--”

The pace is brutal now, the kind Bruce can’t hope to sustain; he feels primal, he feels hungry. He feels a glow in his gut that tells him, oh, it says, _This is it. With him, you’ll never get enough._ “What?” he gets out. “Tell me what, baby. Otherwise, you can’t have it.”

Clark claws at Bruce’s ass, digs into the top of his thighs. “Come, Bruce. Come in me. Please. _Please_ , fuck. Just fill me up.”

Something breaks in Bruce’s brain, turns to dust at the edge of his last bit of resolve, because Clark doesn’t curse. Clark _never_ curses. Clark’s never--

Clark catches him by the hair. “I need it,” Clark says, fierce, and it sounds like an order. The sweetest kind of command. “I need you to come in me. Give it to me, sweetheart. Right fucking now.”

There’s a low rumble, a roar, and it’s only when he stops shaking, stops thrusting, stops pounding into the velvet vise of Clark’s body that Bruce realizes it’s coming from him, still, even though the spill of seed to now a trickle and every part of his body is humming, like each cell is a fire, alight.

A big hand on his face, a soft catch of Clark’s fingers. “You’re so gorgeous, Bruce, when you let go.”

He can’t talk, he doesn’t need to; it’s easier to kiss Kent anyway, to turn his head and find that great, lovely mouth as he softens, as Clark rocks against him making eager, anxious sounds, whining pretty between Bruce’s lips until there’s a gasp, a hot stutter of wet, one that goes on and on and on.

“I like being here,” Clark says, later, when they’re getting dressed.

“In this room in particular, or--?”

That gets him a snort. “In your house, smarty pants. Your home.”

Bruce stops for a second, his fingers tangled in his belt buckle. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A pause, kind of delicate. “Though it would be nice to do this, every once and awhile, in an actual bed.” The tips of Clark’s ears are pink, the curve of his cheeks, too. “I mean, let me be clear: I’m not complaining. I can get over the rug burn.”

Bruce laughs, a bright, sudden startle. “Well, that’s reassuring. Wouldn’t want to send you home damaged.”

Clark does that soft stumble thing and reaches for Bruce, tugs him into his arms. “Liar. You’d at least like me to take home a hickey. Leave me something nice and awkward to explain.”

Bruce kisses him because it’s easier than denying it, easier than finding the words he wants to actually say.

“Seriously, though,” Clark says when he can. “This is good. This is so good, Bruce. I don’t need anymore.”

But he does, Bruce thinks; he can feel it, hear in the way Clark sighs in his ear, the way his hands wind around Bruce’s body and lock him in tight. There’s no part of Clark that wants to let go of him, that wants to say his goodbyes and fly off into the thinning hours of night. Truth be told, there’s no part of Bruce that wants to him to go.

Even if the boys were here, even if the whole league were standing outside the library, even if there was a forest of photogs upstairs, cameras ready, hovering next to his bed.

Nobody’s found them out yet, but somebody will, and that doesn’t scare him like it used to; what scares him now, in the best possible way, is the thought of being here on his own.

“Tell you what,” Bruce says. “Why don’t you come upstairs and we can try it.”

Clark hums against his cheek. “Try what?”

“The whole doing it in a bed thing. Even if all you want to do is sleep.”

A kiss, a squeeze, a warm breeze of a deep-throated laugh. “Mr. Wayne, I thought you’d never ask.”  


***** 

  
In the morning, Alfred brings up two mugs of coffee and four servings of toast, fruit, and a half dozen scrambled eggs.

He does not, to his credit, leave a note, elegantly if simply composed: _Everybody, Master Bruce, already knows_.


End file.
